


When My Landscape Changes, Rearranges

by suchfun



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Christmas, Happy Ending, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physiotherapist Derek, Recovery, physiotherapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 00:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13135242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchfun/pseuds/suchfun
Summary: Stiles tries not to be pissed off at the world in general, but it's fucking hard.He's twenty two years old. He should be out there, living his life, doing… whatever it is normal dudes in their twenties are doing. But he's not. He's doing this. He's getting fired from the job he barely started and wasting his degree and spending days at home alone, mostly laying down because anything else puts too much pressure on his lower spine. He's relearning how to walk and remembering the time his surgeon looked at his scans for the first time and said, "Well, it sucks to be you." He's thinking about about how when he gets home his dad will probably have toshowerhim, because he's been in the pool for half an hour and he's fucking exhausted.There's a lot to be pissed off about.





	When My Landscape Changes, Rearranges

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Stiles is not exactly in the most healthy of mindsets and occasionally refers to himself in a derogatory way. I tried not to cross a line, and everyone calls him out on it, but it is there.
> 
> Title from Stronger by the Sugababes.

Physiotherapy sucks.

Okay, so injuries suck. Physiotherapy is the reason Stiles is walking again after his stupid accident and even stupider back issues. His physiotherapist is amazing, one of today's true heroes, and she should be given a knighthood, a sainthood and a Nobel Peace Prize.

That is, until one day he drags himself to the edge of the hydrotherapy pool for a long drag from his water bottle, and she grins at him and says, "So I won't be around for the next few sessions."

Stiles nearly chokes. "Excuse me?" he croaks, wiping his mouth.

"I'm going away over Christmas with my boyfriend," she explains, eyes sparkling in a way that's making it very difficult to be pissed off with her.

Stiles tries not to be pissed off at the world in general, but it's fucking hard.

He's twenty two years old. He should be out there, living his life, doing… whatever it is normal dudes in their twenties are doing. But he's not. He's doing this. He's getting fired from the job he barely started and wasting his degree and spending days at home alone, mostly laying down because anything else puts too much pressure on his lower spine. He's relearning how to walk and remembering the time his surgeon looked at his scans for the first time and said, "Well, it sucks to be you." He's thinking about about how when he gets home his dad will probably have to _shower_ him, because he's been in the pool for half an hour and he's fucking exhausted.

There's a lot to be pissed off about. It's just that he's not used to Laura being one of them.

"I see," he says evenly.

"We're going to Hawaii, and I'm going to propose." She waggles her eyebrows at him, tongue poking out between her teeth in a way that's beyond fucking adorable.

Ugh.

"That's awesome," he says. Thankfully, their twice-weekly sessions mainly consist of her making encouraging noises and him making pained ones, so she doesn't know him well enough to tell he's being sarcastic.

"Your appointments still stand, don't worry," she says, hauling herself out of the pool and grabbing the laminated sheet with all his exercises printed on it. "I'll personally brief my stand-in before I leave on Thursday, okay?"

Stiles ducks his head under the water, and wishes he didn't have to come back up. 

 

"How was it?" his dad asks afterwards, helping Stiles hobble over to the cruiser. He opens the passenger door, hands hovering awkwardly in case Stiles tips over. It's happened before.

"Let's just go," Stiles snaps.

 

When they're almost home, Stiles turns to his dad.

"Sorry," he says sincerely. "Laura isn't gonna be around for the next few sessions."

His dad nods understandingly, because if there's anyone who knows how much Stiles hates change it's his dad. "Well, no wonder there's… _back_ lash."

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "Really, dad? Just because you _are_ a dad that doesn't mean you should embrace toxic dad joke culture."

"Whatever you say, kid," his dad says, ignoring him, because they both know that Stiles actually loves terrible jokes and sometimes just really needs them. He turns into their drive. "So, I hope you're ready for a truly spectacular bath. I just got a new bath bomb from Lush, and there may or may not be glitter in it."

 

When Scott drops Stiles off at physio on Friday the 22nd of December, Stiles has no expectations. (In his experience it always works out better when you expect nothing—then, if things go well it's a pleasant surprise, and if things go to shit you can at least feel smug about it). He just shuffles into the tiny hydrotherapy annexe at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, eases himself down onto the chair closest to the door, and waits with crossed arms.

He's early, but Laura would always come early. He hasn't changed yet, but Laura would always help him take his shoes off, and then she'd ask him what music to put on. He and Angela, the pregnant woman with hip issues who he shares this appointment time with, always bicker about it but then they always land on the Arctic Monkeys.

As it is there's no sign of the new physio yet, but Angela is already in the pool, gasping in pain and pushing through it as usual.

Stiles is really fucking glad he'll never be able to get pregnant. Especially now with this injury. He isn't even sure he ever wants kids, probably not, but what happens now if he does? Would he even be able to look after them? How is he supposed to even carry them? Or play with them? Or—

"Mee-zee-slaw?" someone calls, butchering his name almost beyond recognition.

"Stiles," he says automatically, turning in the direction of the voice. "Just call me St…"

He trails off. He can't not trail off. Trailing off is all he could be expected to do at this point. Because right there, standing in front of him, with eyebrows raised and Stiles' file in hand, is some kind of— of—

The eyebrows raise higher. "Why would I call you Styles? What does that have to do with anything?"

Some kind of _asshole_. "Well, unless you're planning on learning how to say my name properly, which will probably take ten years and several degrees, you should just call me by my nickname. Which is Stiles. From my last name. Comprende?"

The eyebrows rush down, alllll the way down, until they're hovering over a truly stellar set of pretty pale eyes. He mutters something, a whole string of what Stiles is pretty sure is Spanish.

"What?" Stiles asks.

"Nothing," the guys says, clipped. "Just get changed and get in the pool."

He tosses Stiles' file aside and stalks into the adjoining bathroom.

Stiles frowns. Dude didn't even help with his shoes.

 

So, Stiles' new physiotherapist's name is Derek, and Derek is hot. 

That's a lie.

Derek is _beautiful_.

His eyes are beautiful. His hair is beautiful. His arms are beautiful. Once he strips down to board shorts and a rash guard, it becomes very obvious that his thighs, glutes and pecs are beautiful. Even his _chest hair_ , poking out even despite the high-ish neckline of the vest, is beautiful.

Stiles sighs.

"Keep breathing," Derek tells him sharply, over his shoulder. He's guiding Angela through some careful leg exercises. "I wanna hear steady, even exhales."

Stiles scowls, leaning back further into his floating doughnut and kicking his legs harder.

"So, Derek," Angela says, hint of a flirtatious tone in her voice.

It's annoying. Her voice is one of those ones that gets higher and more nasally whenever she wants something. It hurts his ears.

"What are your plans for Christmas? Spending it with family? Or a… significant other?" She glances at Stiles and winks.

Stiles resists the urge to kick her in the face.

"No family close by," Derek says shortly. "One of my sisters lives in Mexico and the other's in Hawaii."

Stiles stops kicking, grabbing onto the side of the pool for support. "Laura's your sister?" he yelps. "But she's so," he searches for the right words, "good at her job!" 

He regrets it as soon as he's said it.

He can't see Derek's face, but he can see it when the line of shoulders tenses up.

"I don't hear kicking," Derek says gruffly, after a few moments.

Stiles shuts his mouth, and kicks.

 

He tries to apologise to Derek after the session, but by the time he's finished getting changed Derek is hustling him out of the door, locking it behind them and disappearing down the hall.

 

"How was it?" his dad asks, coming around the car to adjust the passenger seat for him.

"It was fine," Stiles mutters.

His dad sighs. "You pissed off the new physio.".

Stiles shrugs.

"I swear Stiles, sometimes you're your own worst enemy," he says, sounding disappointed.

Like that's something Stiles doesn't know already.

 

Stiles is in pain all of the time.

He has prescriptions, but he doesn't like to take them unless the pain gets really bad. For one thing, he's read about it online, and he knows that pill addictions are terrible and dangerous. For another, he knows himself, and he also knows that addictive personalities run in the Stilinski family. It's better to just deal with a little—or a lot—of pain sometimes. (And there are people with worse injuries, he knows. He still has all his limbs, all his organs and all his mental faculties. But in a way that's also what makes it harder—he's a young, fit-looking dude. Trying to get anyone to believe he has a problem is a struggle.)

The stretches and exercises help. Part of his post-op treatment, as well as the hydrotherapy, is to complete a set of core strengthening exercises every morning, which he didn't think he would have the patience to do. As it turns out, it's worth it to able to actually move every day. They may take an hour, and they may be boring as all shit some days, but they've been much more tolerable since he realised he could set up a TV in his room and watch Netflix while he does them.

He remembers high school, when he could jump out of bed fifteen minutes before school started and still get there on time, with great fondness. Now he needs at least twenty four hours notice before he can go anywhere—more, if it's a big trip. (A big trip, naturally, being anything that requires being out for longer than half an hour at a time.)

So when Scott calls him on Sunday at 5.17pm, all, "Hey dude! You should totally come to this Christmas party thing Kira's having at her parents' place! It's gonna be legit!", Stiles just thinks—

_Ugh_.

"Dude, Scott, what have I told you? I can't just come out any time, I need—"

"Yeah, but it's at _Kira's_!" Scott protests. "If you need to go lay down you can just borrow her bed, she's totally cool with it, I asked her."

"You asked her. You asked your almost-girlfriend if it was okay for your cripple best friend to borrow her bed because he's so pathetic he gets sore after ten minutes of standing up."

"You're not a cripple, Stiles," Scott says, and Stiles can _hear_ the frown in his voice. "Or pathetic. And you know you're getting better! It's just… slow."

Siles glares at the snowboarding poster on his wall. (Snowboarding—another thing he'll probably never be able to do.) "Scott, if you one-day-at-a-time me, I will literally reach through this phone and strangle you with your own guitar strings."

"Alright, I get it. I'm just worried about you, dude. You're alone too much. It's _Christmas Eve_ , and your dad's working… If you really can't come, I get it. But I'd like it if we could try."

Stiles sighs. As usual, Scott has him wavering. How the fuck is he so good at convincing everyone to do stuff, Stiles has been his friend for like fifteen years by now and he's still not immune. "Fine," he says eventually. "But if I can't drink, you can't drink. And I'll probably only last a couple hours. And if I need you to take me home earlier than that then I'm sorry dude but you really need to take me home."

"I promise," Scott swears, sounding super sincere. "Whatever you need."

There is a long, long list of things Stiles needs.

Stiles says nothing.

 

Scott picks Stiles up at 9pm. He looks nice—skinny black jeans, festive green button up/red cardigan combo up top. It's pretty much the opposite of Stiles, who has taken to living in hoodies, gym shorts and ugg boots, because they're the easiest clothes to get on and off. He hasn't adjusted his outfit much for the party, but he did swap out the shorts for sweatpants because a) he's never sure about the heating situation in any new place and b) no one wanting to party needs to see his scrawny, chalky knees.

In the end, it doesn't really matter what Stiles is wearing anyway. He's not the one trying to impress the host and get her to go steady with him. His attendance at this party is strictly to shut his loved ones up and make them think he might be making some progress.

"So what's your game plan?" Stiles says, adjusting himself in the seat. He forgot his back cushion—the one he has to take fucking everywhere, especially in the car, or he can't sit even semi-comfortably—but he's not going to ask Scott to go back and get it. If it gets too bad he can just roll up his hoodie and jam it behind the small of his back instead.

Scott looks at him blankly.

"With Kira?"

"Oh right! Well, just talk to her I guess."

This is the fundamental difference between Stiles Stilinski and Scott McCall. Stiles makes ten year plans, Scott 'I guesses'. And yet, things always seem to work out for Scott. Maybe Stiles should just stop bothering. The universe is obviously trying to tell him something. 

Scott looks anxious, obviously concerned by Stiles' silence. "Why, should I not, should I have—" 

Stiles claps him on the shoulder, cutting off a potential disaster. "Nah man, you're hot, you're smart, you'll basically be the best option there. Or at any party. It'll be cool. I promise."

 

It's not a big party. Kira's place is a one-storey, and the open-plan kitchen/dining/living area is well-populated, but that's because that's where the booze and food are. The other areas open to guests, the backyard and the front rumpus room, are relatively sparse. Stiles stays away from the outside. The wind is biting tonight, and the cold doesn't do his back any good. He veers back towards the rumpus room, edging along the wall, using it as support.

Scott's abandoned him to find Kira, but has left him with instructions to have 'fun'. Whatever that is anymore.

Just as he reaches the rumpus room a couch opens up, all three occupants heading back to the kitchen, and he lets them pass before dropping down onto it gratefully, stuffing a cushion behind him. From this spot he can see the whole rest of the room as well as out into the hall, and he entertains himself with people watching for a few minutes.

Stiles doesn't know anyone here.

How does Stiles not know anyone here? Kira was in his high school year, and he knows there's other people from BHHS still in Beacon Hills, he's hidden from them heaps of times at the grocery store. But there are no familiar faces anywhere.

Who are all _these_ people? 

Shifting uncomfortably, Stiles taps his fingers against his thigh. He really shouldn't have come. Scott would've been way better off on his own. Stiles is kind of a huge drag these days, he's so fucking high-maintenance, and in the end it's just always best to let everyone else go and their thing without him. Being a burden a very real thing, for him.

Ten minutes later he's just about to maybe like… call a Lyft, or last resort call his dad, because Scott's obviously got waylaid by someone more interesting (not that Stiles can blame him) when Scott comes careening into the room, guilt and gratification warring on his face.

"Dude, I'm so sorry, I got caught up talking to Kira, did you know she has a katana collection?" Scott babbles excitedly. "Here, I got you a soda, and chips!" He pulls a warm can of Sprite and a napkin filled with crushed chips out of his pocket and frowns. "Sorry dude, they kinda broke."

"It's great dude, this is awesome." Stiles pops the tab on the can and forces himself to take a swig. "So, you got to see her room, huh? Any panties on the floor?"

Scott rolls his eyes, which is just what Stiles was aiming for, and he delves into a full explanation of Kira's room, but Stiles has stopped listening to him. He can't listen to him, because he's just seen the newest group of arrivals. There are four of them in total and finally, finally he recognises someone. 

Because one of them is Derek.

It's all good. Stiles hasn't even thought about him since Derek practically ran away a few days ago. Not at all. No thoughts whatsoever. And he definitely hasn't been looking up porn featuring strong stoic stubbled dudes fucking mouthy pale twinks.

_Not at all._

Derek doesn't see him. He and his group head directly down to the kitchen, and Stiles… Making a split second decision, Stiles turns back to Scott and sets down his drink. 

"I gotta go lay down," he tells Scott, who frowns.

"You okay, dude? We only just got here." He leans in further, eyes serious. "Do you need to go home?"

"It's fine," Stiles insists, offering Scott his arm for their special handshake. "Bedroom?"

"Opposite side of the hall, one door down," Scott instructs. He helps Stiles up, then pats him on the shoulder as Stiles edges to the doorway, peeks out, sees the coast is clear and retreats to Kira's room.

This has been, and probably always will be, the only good thing about this whole shitty injury—he never has to stay somewhere he doesn't want to stay, see something he doesn't want to see, or talk to anyone he doesn't want to talk to ever again. His back is the ultimate get out of jail free card.

For him to… well. Lock himself in an empty room, all alone, while everyone else is out having fun and enjoying their Christmas celebrations.

At least it's not a boring empty room. Kira has her katana collection proudly mounted and displayed on her wall, and it's as endearing as it is completely terrifying. Same for the Hello Kitty bedspread and Game of Thrones curtains. The whole room is basically the personification of Scott's type. 

Stiles groans, lowering himself back on Kira's bed. It's comfortable, at least—firm, with good back support. He had to buy a whole new bed.

When he thinks about it, he doesn't know why he's even having these reactions around Derek. They've barely spoken to each other. Derek is like his _doctor_. Derek probably doesn't even remember him, and Stiles literally just _hid_ from him. Whatever is going on in Stiles' head is obviously the product of his understimulated imagination.

"What a dick," he mutters, rubbing his eyes, unsure whether he's referring to Derek or himself. He's just about to reach for his phone, maybe see if he can hack Kira's family's WiFi password so he can avoid eating away at his limited data, when the door opens and—

And Derek steps inside. 

He looks at Stiles. Stiles looks at Derek. 

Derek closes the door behind him. 

"I thought I locked that," Stiles says, forcing himself to unfreeze, willing himself to act casual.

"Obviously not." Despite how much more interesting the room must be, he keeps his eyes on Stiles. "Are you okay?" 

"Fine," Stiles says automatically. "Just back stuff, you know." He rolls over onto his side, wishing he was under the covers for some sort of protection. 

That would probably be weird though. Also, who even knows what Scott and Kira have done in this bed. Gross.

Derek frowns. He transfers his beer to his beer from hand to hand. "Are you in pain?" 

"I'm pretty much always in pain, dude. Comes with the territory." Derek looks troubled. Stiles takes pity on him. "It's on a scale, though. Most of the time it hovers between three and seven."

"That's not what…" He shakes his head. "What happened to you?"

"Didn't you read my file?"

"Laura didn't give me your full history. Just your physio plan."

Stiles drops his head back down, staring at the little plastic stars on Kira's ceiling. "I was in a car accident," he says eventually. "It wasn't bad, it wrecked my Jeep but I was mostly okay. Except apparently I have congenital back issues and the crash exacerbated all that jazz. So blah blah blah pain, blah blah blah sciatica, couldn't walk, on waiting list for surgery for months, had surgery, and now whoop, here we are."

"Thank you for that eloquent and touching recount."

Stiles gives him an obnoxious, sloppy salute. "Anytime. I live to inspire." He levers himself up onto an elbow, squinting at Derek. "So what's your story then? You sister went into physiotherapy so you decided to follow? Couldn't come up with your own calling? Is that why you came in here, couldn't figure out your own party trick? I'm sensing a theme."

Derek shrugs, wandering over to the katana wall. "I went into the physio stuff first, actually." He takes a long sip of beer. "And I came in here because I hate people in general less than I hate you. Believe it or not, your existence doesn't affect me at all."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Dude, you have no idea what—" 

And then the door opens again, music spilling into the room, and Kira creeps inside. She spots Stiles immediately, smiling that pitying, exhausting smile that even those with the best intentions seem to fall back on. 

"Hey Stiles," she says softly, shutting the door behind her and leaning against it. "How you doing?" 

"He's fine," Derek answers for him, and Kira jumps. 

"Oh my God, Derek, don't do that!" She takes a calming breath. "What re you doing in here?" 

He shrugs noncommittally. 

"Do you guys know each other?" she asks, head swivelling between them. 

"Kind of," Stiles says, shrugging. "He's my new hydro guru."

"What?" Her eyes bug a little as she turns to Derek. "So Stiles is—" 

"Shut up Kira," Derek grinds out. 

Stiles would offended on her behalf, but she's grinning, so this must be a thing for them.

"So, wow," Stiles says after a few moments of awkward silence, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. "Cool. Everyone knows Derek." 

Derek sighs. "I have to go," he mutters. "Merry Christmas, Kira." He plants a kiss on her cheek and is almost out the door when Stiles gets an idea.

"Hey, wait!" he calls, and carefully drags himself to the edge of the bed. He takes a breath, clenches his core, and boosts himself up, trying to drive the force through his legs. Once he's upright, he looks up at Derek, who's standing weirdly with his right foot and arm outstretched like he's about to reach forward and grab something. "You okay dude?" 

Derek snaps back into place, as rigid as a GI Joe doll. "Fine. What do you want."

"Okay, I promise I wouldn't ask if I didn't have to, and I know this could be a little inappropriate, but could you please give me ride home. Please. Please please please?" 

Derek's eyes flick to Kira. "Um." 

Stiles goes in for the kill. "My buddy Scott said he'd give me a lift home but he just really wants to spend more time with Kira, and I would hate to interrupt such a meaningful union."

"Scott?" Derek says uncertainly, gaze landing on Kira fully now. She's staring at him with wide, pleading eyes. He sighs. "Fine. But we're going now." He stomps out of the room. 

"Tell Scotty bye," Stiles says to Kira, and follows Derek before either of them can change their minds.

 

Derek's car is a 2017 Camaro. It's an absolute bitch to try and get into, but once he's inside it's totally worth it. The seats are heated, padded and not too contoured, and the suspension is like nothing Stiles has ever felt before. Even that pothole-riddled stretch at the end of Kira's street feels like drifting over velvet. 

"Fuuuck," Stiles breathes, typing his address into the satnav for Derek, sinking further into the seat. 

"What?" Derek asks gruffly. 

"This caaaaar. It's almost as sweet as Kira. Which, speaking of," he says, intending to take full advantage of his totally natural, unplanned segue, "what is your deal with Kira? You seem tight."

Derek shrugs. Well, shrugs as much as his tight leather jacket and equally tight shoulders will allow. "Our families have known each other for a while. I got my black belt at her parents' dojo, so we trained together a little."

"Trained…" Stiles says faintly, a montage of sweaty, toned Dereks flashing through his mind. 

"Yeah," Derek says, obviously warming to the topic. "Actually, her dad teaches tai chi in the mornings. Maybe you could try it when you graduate to activities on dry land."

"Tai chi like retirees do?" Stiles asks skeptically. "Well, I guess my surgeon did say I have the spine of an old man…"

"He shouldn't have said that," Derek says, frowning. "Surgeons have a responsibility to their patients to help them really believe they can recover. Do you know how important mental strength is?"

"Yeah, I do," Stiles says. "But I don't need some entitled asshole with a scalpel to tell me that."

Not when his dad has been so awesome—taking time off work, ferrying Stiles to and from the hospital, sorting out all the paperwork and bureaucracy when Stiles couldn't. Staying calm when Stiles was in so much pain he had to crawl to get to the bathroom. Rearranging the house so that Stiles could take up residence on the couch when he couldn't make it up the stairs.

And all of that with the memory of his dead wife hanging over his head, it's just… Stiles just really fucking loves his dad.

"Still," Derek says, after a while. "He sounds like a dick."

Stiles snorts. "Dude, you have no idea."

 

On Christmas morning, Stiles wakes up to the smell of coffee. 

He immediately rolls over and buries his head under his comforter. 

If Stiles is smelling coffee, that means his dad is home. He's home, and after an exhausting twelve hour shift is having to make himself Christmas breakfast. 

Stiles always makes Christmas breakfast (pancakes, from scratch). These days he can barely make a PB&J. 

"Fuck," he bites out, rubbing his eyes. 

 

Stiles drags himself out of bed after allowing himself a strict seven minutes to feel useless and inadequate, and a further twenty minutes to lazily do some exercises. He shrugs on his terrible red and white polka dot sweater, the one he only ever wears on Christmas morning, and surely enough is dad is in his matching sweater once he manages to get downstairs and into the kitchen. 

"Merry Christmas, dad," he says, and when his dad turns to him, grinning, Stiles can't help but pull him into a hug. 

Stiles manages setting the table while his dad serves the food, and they both finish eating in record time. Presents are next, and they head into the living room to do it under the tree, as per tradition. 

Also tradition: not keeping the presents actually under the tree before this very moment, because both of them are way too nosy and impossible to just leave well enough alone. Stiles once broke on of his presents while trying to figure out what it was. No, in the Stilinski house they hide their gifts from each other. This year Stiles' choice of hiding places had been limited, but his dildo drawer is always a winning spot. His dad has only made the mistake of accidentally looking in there the once. 

Stiles settles into the comfiest armchair, and his dad perches on the couch. It's Stiles' turn to go first this year, and he presents his dad with the gift bag.

His dad smiles again, yanking off the ribbon and upending the bag. 

"I was gonna get you an iPad," he says, as he dad looks over his seven inch tablet with interest, "but then I realised it didn't have some of the apps you'd want."

Lie. He was gonna get his dad an iPad, but then he'd got fired and couldn't afford one any more. 

"You can do heaps of shit on there, read newspapers, play games, watch—"

His dad rolls his eyes. "I know how tablets work, Stiles. But you can help me set it up later." He reaches over to pat Stiles' knee. "Thanks, I'm sure this'll come in handy."

Stiles wonders if that's really true. He used to be able to read his dad pretty well, but since this back stuff his dad has become much better at spinning the truth. (Stiles actually likes to think his dad learned some techniques from him, when he can bring himself to think about it at all.) He probably thinks he's helping protect Stiles or something. 

"As for your present…" His dad grins, abandoning his tablet on the couch and disappearing into the hall. Stiles hears a scraping, the sound of the garage door opening, and then a bunch of rummaging. 

Hiding his gift in the garage was an excellent strategy, Stiles has to admit. He hasn't set foot in there since that last, traumatising goodbye he'd made to his Jeep. 

There's an awkward shuffling sound, a sliding, and then his dad reappears, pulling a huge, TV-sized box with him. 

"Dad…"

His dad grins. "I thought it was about time your setup in your room got an overhaul." 

Because he uses it so much. Because that's basically all he can—

Stiles stops his thoughts in their tracks. Not today. Not when his dad is being so awesome and thoughtful. 

"I know you've been through a lot this year," his dad continues, "and you're not exactly where you wanna be, but you're doing such a good job, kid. I'm proud of you and everything you've done. Okay?"

"Thanks dad," Stiles says sincerely, levering himself up to go over for a hug. 

"Merry Christmas," his dad says, eyes wet.

Stiles hugs him tighter. "Now we just need to figure out how to get it upstairs," he murmurs. 

His dad freezes in his arms, and Stiles can't help but laugh. 

 

They don't try and get it upstairs. 

It's too heavy, and they're both to scared of breaking it (or breaking Stiles), so for the moment it will go back to its place in the garage. 

They set themselves up in the living room instead, Christmas snacks (chips for Stiles, trail mix for his dad) on their laps, and Stiles turns on the TV and navigates to Netflix. Every year after breakfast they watch at least one terrible Christmas movie. It's a tradition they accidentally started the Christmas after Stiles' mom died, when they were both too devastated to do anything but flop in front of the TV, hearts aching and eyes blurry.

Netflix has a plethora of terrible movies this year, and Stiles picks the first one with Christmas in the title. 

Ten minutes in, Stiles is already bored out of his mind. He distracts himself a little by browsing Instagram, double tapping a few Christmas posts, scrolling until he comes to one from Kira that looks—

His mouth goes dry and he sits up straighter, staring at the picture. 

Derek's in it, and Kira has tagged him. 

Derek has Instagram. 

_Derek_. 

Stiles probably shouldn't be surprised, most people of his and Derek's generation have Instagram but… _Derek_ has Instagram. 

Stiles doesn't even hesitate before tapping Derek's handle (the super original _derekshale_ ). There are five pictures, the earliest one dating back to 2015. Two are of sunsets, one is a dog, one is his car, and the most recent one is captioned 'Thanksgiving 17' and features Laura, Derek and another woman who Stiles is assuming is their other sister.

Stiles stares at that photo for a while. Laura and the other sister are smiling, faces squished together, and Derek is in the upper right corner, looking exasperated, but his eyes are lit up with happiness and Stiles… 

Stiles takes a screen cap, hits follow, and hides his phone under his thigh before he can think about how weird that just was and how much he's going to hate himself in an hour. 

 

As it turns out, Stiles doesn't even get the chance to hate himself. 

Not long afterwards, his phone vibrates against his leg, and Stiles checks to see he has a new message. 

Derek has followed him back. 

Stiles grins. 

It's a pretty decent Christmas, overall. 

 

Stiles runs into Derek walking into hospital on the 27th. He's not ready to see him, has been psyching himself up to see him, so when they bump shoulders, turn to each other to apologise, and then recognise each other it's… 

It's a little awkward. 

"Hey," Stiles squeaks. "Derek, hey!" 

"Hey Stiles," Derek says, smiling a little. 

Stiles forces himself to remain strong. "How was your Christmas?"

"Fine. You?"

"Fine." He shifts in place, searching blindly for a safe topic. "Uh. How's Laura? Has she proposed yet?" 

"Yesterday. At sunset. On the beach."

Stiles pulls a face. "That's disgusting." 

"Agreed." Derek nods rapidly, a few more times than a person actually needs to nod, and shifts uncomfortably. "Should we…" He nods in the direction of the elevator. 

"Oh, yeah, sure. Don't wanna keep Angela waiting."

Derek lets him take the lead. 

His hand hovers over small of Stiles' back the whole time. 

 

Crushing on your doctor is dumb. 

Stiles knows this. 

There must be like, a million different episodes in a million different medical dramas talking about how dumb it is, how unethical and like, _illegal_ it is. 

And yet Stiles remains the dumbass who does it anyway. Of fucking course. 

Because seriously, it is so damn dumb. 

Stiles barely even knows Derek. He knows nothing about Derek, and Derek knows way too much about him. Derek has touched him basically all over, and Stiles has never touched Derek. Derek has seen Stiles nearly crying in pain, and Stiles has seen maybe two of Derek's expressions ever. 

Derek is hot, and has paid Stiles some attention, that's all. Derek is never gonna be interested in anything that's not a physician/patient relationship, and that's good. Stiles is bored and restless, and wants a distraction from his own crap so badly he's making up some sort of connection between them. It's all in his head, hundred percent.

So, if Stiles could stop projecting on Derek and turning every little touch into something it's not, that would be awesome. Derek has to touch him, it's literally in his job description. He has to press his palm gently Stiles' hip in order to adjust his posture. He has to slide his fingertips across Stiles' shoulders. His calf has to brush up against Stiles'.

It's clinical. Professional. It doesn't mean a thing.

Stiles just wishes his brain would fucking remember that.

 

Traditionally, New Year's Eve has meant a lot to Stiles. 

Stiles' mom had had about an average level of interest in Christmas, it was more his dad's thing, but New Years? New Years got her the most excited. She'd loved the celebration of what had been and the thrill of what was to come. She'd loved the symbolism of it, of shedding the old and embracing the new. She'd loved the parties, the countdown, the fireworks, the kissing at midnight, everything about it, and since she died Stiles has made a special effort to really, properly celebrate New Years in her honour. 

Stiles won't be doing any of that this year. No, this year Stiles did something dumb to his back yesterday that upset something in there and screwed his chances, so Stiles will be at home, watching the fireworks on his new TV. Alone. 

His dad had to give up NYE for his Christmas day off, which Stiles totally understands, and Scott and Kira have travelled a few cities over to see fireworks in person, which Stiles totally understands. He understands it all, and he'd reassured all three of them that they should have fun, and he'd be fine. 

And he is, it's just… 

It fucking sucks. 

It's sometime between 10 and 11pm, and he's sprawled across his bed, rewatching The Good Place and trying to muster up the energy to be entertained (which he should probably just give up on, because if The Good Place doesn't work, then nothing will). 

"Fuck," he says, groping for his remote and shutting the TV off. But the lack of noise inside only highlights the sounds outside, the music, the laughter, the good times everyone else is having—

So, yeah. Stiles is sulking, maybe kind of spiralling a little, when doorbell rings. 

Nope. Stiles is not going down there. The stairs are a bitch on his best days, he's not—

It keeps ringing. And ringing. And ringing. 

"Fuuuuck," Stiles grinds out, hauling himself up and staggering out of his room. He just barely makes it down the stairs without hurting himself any further, and practically falls into the door before wrenching it open. "What the fuck do you—" 

His mouth snaps closed. Because it's Derek.

"I know this is inappropriate," Derek says calmly, "but I can't stop thinking about you."

Stiles blinks. "You remember where I live?" he says, dumbly.

Derek has the decency to look a little embarrassed. "I remember most things about you."

"I think if this were any other scenario that would be one hundred percent creepy, but I'll allow it." He shakes his head, opening the door further, leaning against the door jamb for support. "Derek, this is… I mean, this is above and beyond the call of duty, isn't it?" 

"What?" 

"You're like, my doctor. But you're here. On New Year's Eve. At my door." Yeah, Stiles might be finding this hard to believe. Stiles finds most good things hard to believe at the moment, and Derek, showing up at his door, at almost midnight on NYE, looking so fucking adorable and saying such adorable things? That's… Stiles is not convinced he isn't hallucinating.

"Stiles, I _just_ told you I—" He pulls a constipated face and crosses his arms. "Plus, I'm not your doctor."

"I beg to differ, dude. You treat me, I am your patient, ergo you are my doctor, ergo this is illegal." He shifts a bit, the pain in his back increasing with every moment he spends standing up. Which Derek notices, of course, and then doesn't hesitate to use an opportunity to barge inside and herd Stiles inside and over to the couch. 

Derek hovers in front of him for a moment, unsure, before rolling his eyes and planting himself down next to Stiles.

"You're wrong," he says clearly. " _Laura_ is your physiotherapist, _Laura_ treats you, and _this_ is nowhere near illegal."

"Laura's back?" 

Derek looks exasperated, one eyebrow raised, but his eyes seem… fond. "Is that really the question you want to ask me right now?" 

"Yes," Stiles says stubbornly, then immediately follows it with, "no. I don't know. Probably not. There's a lot of things I wanna ask. I don't actually know that much about you." Stiles tries valiantly to remain strong. It's very difficult when Derek is so warm and smells so good.

And when Derek's fingertips graze across the top of Stiles' knuckles. Stiles never knew knuckles could be such an erogenous zone. "With time comes wisdom," Derek says.

"Time? You want… you wanna spend time with me?"

"The more time I spend with you, the _more_ time I wanna spend with you."

"Seriously, though? Me?" Stiles knows he sounds more than a little pathetic right now. But he has to ask. He takes a deep breath. "Sure you wanna be with a cripple?"

Derek pulls back, frowning. "Stiles. I would never think of you that way."

"Isn't it hard not to?"

"Not at all. Maybe I admire your spirit. Maybe I envy your strength." He pauses, the tiniest, most perfect little smirk playing around his lips. "Maybe I think you look really good wet." 

Stiles barks out a laugh. "Well. I've always said everything looks better wet." 

"You're a wise man." Derek pauses. Stiles meets his eyes slowly. "I hope you're not comparing yourself to me, thinking your injury somehow makes you less."

Stiles is always comparing himself to everyone. That's just his life these days, he doesn't even know he's doing it most of the time. It's a hard thing to break out of. But. He'll try. It's probably about time. "I will sometimes," he says honestly. "Just hopefully not forever."

Derek nods, slipping his fingers between Stiles'.

"Also, dude, I _know_ you have flaws, okay? Everyone does. I'll just probably need to be reminded of yours every once in a while, because your exterior is so…" He lets out a low whistle, squeezing Derek's hand hard.

Derek rolls his eyes. "Shut up."

"Yeah, cool, will do, I mean…" He trails off, looking at Derek calculatedly. "Can we like, kiss instead? Because that'll really—"

Derek kisses him.

 

Derek's sitting with him on his bed, watching the fireworks on TV, when midnight strikes and the year turns over. When Derek kisses him again, sweet and smiling, Stiles realises two things.

One—he did actually get to do one of the things his mom loved doing, and if all of Derek's kisses are this good then Stiles is gonna fucking love it too.

And two—when he looks back at 2017, it _was_ mostly shitty. And it did _suck_ to be him, it sucked so fucking much. But there were some parts that didn't suck, and maybe part of this whole process is learning how to cope, learning how to try and focus on different things. To think about the good as well as the bad, and try not to get caught up in his own frustration and disappointment. To appreciate the people that are trying to help you, and remember that your life isn't set in stone.

2017 was just one year of many, with many more still to come.

**Author's Note:**

> This was not the fic I intended on posting, but my original fic was just NOT cooperating, and a few days ago I started writing this in a panic. And then I punched out 7k in three days, which is unheard of for me. This fic was also pretty cathartic for me, which... I didn't even know I needed that? I've had my own medical issues for 5+ years now, but apparently I'm still working through stuff lol. I'm not ashamed to say it's a constant mental battle. (PS. I'm Australian and all my experiences with hospitals/doctors etc are as such, so I know little about the American system. Pls overlook any glaring discrepancies???)
> 
> Also: the ending borders on being wrapped up top prettily, I am aware of this. But a) I needed it and b) it's Christmas, so I decided to let myself not care for once. 
> 
> I hope everyone is having a good holiday season :)


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